xp_logs | Marie-Ange, Alison, Miles and Manuel (Who manages to star in this, even while being in a COMA.) (Reply)

Normally, the infirmary and medlabs were quiet, but not deathly so. The rustle of Hank's papers combined with the whirring of computers and scanners formed a nearly subliminal background hum. It was, oddly, a good place to study, which is mostly what Marie-Ange had been doing for the last week. Watching monitors and jotting down vital signs on a chart took a fraction of her time, and while assisting with the care of Manuel was intended as an object lession, Dr. McCoy had expected her to not neglect her studies.

Today the labs were silent. The same noises as always were present, but muted through the heavy sterile curtain seperating Lorna from the rest of the infirmary. The atmosphere was not conducive to studying, reading, or doing much more than worrying, and occasionally checking in to see if errands needed to be run. Errands usually consisted of coffee, or Twinkies. It should have been amusing, but it wasn't.

Manuel twisted and turned on his infirmary bed. Inside his mind, the cool comforting whiteness of oblivion was disrupted by a riot of colors raining down upon his safe, quiet place. There, the angry pulsing red of pain. And here, the yellow of worry, the blackish-grey of terror, the yellowish splashed with red of annoyance. But closest and strongest of all was the gunmetal color of cool professionalism, of repression. He moaned again, twisting violently in his bed, only the restraints keeping him from an unceremonious spill onto the ground. Try as he might, he couldn't make all the colors turn back into white. Cracked lips parted again, and a low moan escpaed from a throat harshly used.

"~it burns~" he said in Spanish, the first words he had uttered aloud in over a week. ~It _burns_.~

He twisted again in his bonds, trying to escape the flaming agony that screamed across his brain. Words failed him once again, reducing him to agonized whimpers as the whiteness fled entirely, replaced in his mind by sheets of black-and-red agony. The pain and the terror combined to deny him any place to retreat, defeat any attempt at serenity.

~Help me~ he begged.

Marie-Ange looked up from her sketchpad a mere half-second before Manuel spoke. One look at the spiking displays on the monitors, and the bright glow from Manuel's eyes was enough impetus to start her on a dash to Doctor McCoy's office. A step later, she remembered where he was. She caught herself, grabbing the edge of a table, and headed back the way she had come, hoping she would be lucky enough to catch someone who wasn't a student.

Given her state of mind, she would have been relived to even see Mr. Marko, or Logan. Luckily, for her, and possibly for Manuel, she found Alison sitting just outside the infirmary, in a folding chair probably pinched from Hank's office.

Looking up from where she's sitting, Miles leaning against her leg and staring up at her in worry, Alison stares at the frantic girl for a heartbeat, before rising to her feet. "Marie-Ange," she reaches down, absently disentangling one leg from Miles so she doesn't lose her balance, only to have two small hands latch on to the arm solidly. "It's ok baby," she smiles down at Miles briefly, before turning her attention to the French girl.

"He's waking up! And I can't get Dr McCoy! Help! WhatdoIdoohmyGodwhatdoIdohe'shavingaseizure..." Marie-Ange pointed in the direction of the general infirmary.

Miles stared up at her wide-eyed, hiding behind Alison while switching his hold back to her leg as Alison reached out, grabbing Marie-Ange by the shoulders and giving her a firm shake. "Where?" she said firmly, raising her voice a little. "Show me."

"Thisway! Thisway!" She span on her heel, breaking Alison's grip, and headed back towards the Infirmary.

Leaning down, Alison picked up Miles, who obligingly clung to her as she caaught up to Marie-Ange, briefly breaking into a run. As they came near the door to the patient room however, she sats Miles down, crouching to give him a stern look. "Stay here baby. You can look through the doorway so you see me, though, k?" A solemn, if still very wide-eyed nod greeted her words, and she straightened up, following Marie-Ange inside.

Manuel, for his part, bucks like he's on fire. He's twists and strains against the bonds that strap him to the bed, but his emaciated frame can't muster the strength to break them. He's babbles incoherently, with the occasional word or two of Spanish thrown in for good measure. His eyes are glowing, even through his eyelids - a hellish red glow that makes him look positively Satanic.

Alison stares for a heartbeat, the few words in Spanish that she catches taking a few seconds to sink through from the unfamiliar intonations - and then curses under her breath as she moves in quickly towards Manuel.

"Marie-Ange, how long has this been going on?" she snaps out. "Since they brought Lorna in?"

She runs to the doorway and kneels down, reaching out for Miles who doesnt' even hesitate in flinging his arms aroudn her neck, peering over her shoulder at the thrashing boy. "Miles, sweetie... I think you could help Manuel. Is that all right with you?" she asks quickly, already knowing the answer, but still needing to ask.

"Miles help!" is the instant reply, arms tightening around her neck as she straightens up, and walks right next to the bed, Miles shifting in her arms to look down at Manuel.

Manuel is babbling about how much it burns, and begging for help. When Miles does his thing, he collapses like a marionette whose strings were cut. Marie-Ange breathes a loud sigh of relief, and looks at Miles "Merci, Miles." She looks up at Alison. "Thank you."

Miles nods at Marie-Ange, not understanding what she said but guessing at the meaning easily enough - and then blinks once before burying his face in Alison's shoulder in a fit of shyness. "We'll just stay here until Hank's done tending to Lorna, Marie-Ange," Alison offers, hooking a foot around the leg of a chair and drawing close, sitting down while making sure she and Miles are still close enough to keep Manuel's power "off".

Manuel, bereft of his power, finds solace in oblivion, and falls into what appears to be (and the medical sensors confirm it) a natural sleep. Marie-Ange, for her part, keeps trying to make eye contact with Miles, almost to the point of playing peek-a-boo with the boy. A quick lunge for the sketchpad, and the French girl begins to dart out a sketch of the green-skinned boy.